


Conventionality Belongs to Yesterday

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Greasers, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the strange tale of how Dave Strider, the self-proclaimed leader of the Greaser Revival Movement, ends up with Karkat Vantas. And it all begins in 2009, at Skaia University...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [Record 1, Side A] 1. You're Sensational

**Author's Note:**

> This is formatted like it's being told from both points of view. Dave is the asshole dork narrating in third person. Karkat is in first person. I'm going to guess that Karkat's point of view will be more frequent, but I plan on throwing in some Dave narration for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **About the Song**   
>  "You're Sensational" was performed by Frank Sinatra and written by Cole Porter for the film _High Society_. It first premiered in 1956. [**You can listen to it on YouTube here!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z14r-Twaswk)

Skaia University—another of America’s many higher education institutions. A liberal arts school. It was nestled amidst its sleepy namesake town of Skaia, a relatively small rural hub. In fact, the college campus was at the center of the town. It was, in essence, the very definition of a college town. It was central, lively, and crucial to the small town’s survival.

But our story isn’t about the inconsequential economics of Skaia, USA. No, our story is about two very different students who, through anomalous means, end up befriending one another. And, over time, who end up falling for each other.

The first of these students was Dave Strider. He was as much of a dork as he was the enigmatic cool kid of the campus. He was a formidable person as a whole—6’2” tall with broad shoulders and red-brown eyes that could cut through a crowd like a well-honed sword. His fashion sense only added to the general air of unapproachability that he had about him.

You see, even though it was 2009 when this particular story begins, Dave Strider had what one might call ‘a thing’ for greaser culture. No matter the weather, he was always seen wearing his beaten up black leather jacket. On hot days, he slung it over his shoulder. The only thing that really set him apart from the classical 1950’s greaser was that he didn’t own a car. No, he had a motorcycle—a heavily modified, very much personalized motorcycle.

If you were to ask about said motorcycle, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you about it, either. The bike was, as a whole, a Harley-Davidson 165, a model released during the early 1950’s. He’d also be very eager to point out that he’d bought the beaten-down bike from a scrapyard and fixed it up himself. He fitted it with modern controls and a motor powerful enough to go up to over 100 miles per hour. He’d painted it red and put a white pinstripe down the center. A small chrome plate with his initials adorned the space just behind the seat.

So, who was the other student?

Well, his name was Karkat Vantas. If Dave Strider was the definition of vintage cool, then Karkat was the textbook example of modern dork. He stood at a mere 5’4” and had a fairly average build. For everything Dave loved, Karkat craved the practical opposite. Adrenaline? No. He’d rather not die an early death. Leather jackets? Not really. His style was more in line with either a t-shirt or a (preferably black) sweater.

Whereas Dave had gotten into the college through a mix of charisma and money, Karkat had gotten in for and with academics. At his high school, he was known for being the passionate and often foul-mouthed leader of the debate team. He played clarinet in the school band and graduated among the top 50 of his class.

How the hell did such two disparagingly different people end up together? Well, really, it’s a story that’s as complex as it is outlandish…

Dave was a frequent performer at the nearby off-campus coffeehouse and, during his many afternoon and evening shifts, a particular person had caught his eye. A student from the college—short, messy black hair, with medium brown skin. From what he’d gathered, that person was Karkat Vantas. He was a freshman studying history and communications. And he was a frequent evening customer where Dave worked.

Likewise, Karkat’s attentions had been caught by the enigmatic guitar player at the place he often picked up his nightly cup of coffee from. An acquaintance of his had informed him about the musician—the tall, pale, golden-blond man with a soft spot for greaser culture and music. Dave Strider, a junior college student studying business and music.

However, despite this mutual interest, neither had ever spoken to the other. In fact, on the day that our story begins, it just happened to be the first time they ever interacted. And it all started that rainy afternoon.

Karkat had arrived at the shop early. He’d already devoted that particular evening to a French culture festival occurring in the campus gymnasium. But, that didn’t mean he was going to miss his coffee fix. Unfortunately for him, on his way there—a good ten minute walk off campus—he’d ended up getting caught in a sudden rainstorm.

By the time he arrived, he was drenched. His black hooded sweatshirt had turned into a heavy mass of fabric that only made him look smaller than he already was. That wasn’t his main problem, though. No, his main problem was that the messenger bag that he kept his laptop in was absolutely drenched. Water dripped from it at a slow but steady pace, and the first thing he did when he got inside was pull that laptop—a battered but still decent device (even if it was a Dell)—out of his case and set it down on the nearest table he could find.

Amidst his panic, he’d failed to realize that the guitarist was watching him. In fact, Dave Strider just so happened to be sitting at the table that Karkat was using to hastily dry out his laptop.

_**And, so, this is how our story began.** _  
_**This is how a mild, rainy September night** _  
_**became the leading bookend to a long** _  
_**series of anomalous events.** _

The first time I heard Dave speak, my reaction was even parts shock and confusion.

See, he never spoke much. At least, from what I’d heard, he didn’t speak much. So, I just based his voice off of how he looked. Aside from his general appearance, I factored in his outlandish retro style. His godawful black leather jacket with a massive vinyl record embroidered on the back. The plain t-shirt he wore that was probably more grease, oil, and sweat stains than it was actual clean fabric. Those near-opaque black Ray-Ban sunglasses he wore. The bright red plastic sword-shaped toothpick he sometimes had sticking out of his mouth. And it all came together to make a theoretically gruff, powerful, lower middle range voice.

Instead, I got this soft voice with the faintest lilt of a Texan accent. It was solidly straight-up middle range and it was mostly monotonous. Words slurred ever so slightly together and softer sounds sometimes failed to come out. “Looks like you need a little help with that,” were his first words to me. And they were followed by a quiet, nervous laugh.

I, meanwhile, pushed down my shock long enough to look up. At that moment, he had another of those fucking ridiculous red toothpicks sticking out of his mouth. And another surprise waited for me—he was a tea person. At least, judging by the unaltered cup of tea sitting in front of him, he was. Still, I managed to keep my composure long enough to reply to him with all the social graces of that one dog that eats other dogs’ shit. “Yeah. Um… That would be fucking nice.”

Surprisingly enough, though, he took it pretty well. “Aren’t you the social butterfly?” Here, he paused. As if to acknowledge his voice’s near-perpetual flatness, he punctuated the statement with a vaguely sarcastic grin. Then, he plucked a few napkins from the dispenser at the edge of the table. As he handed them over, he continued, “You come around here a lot. What, you one of those coffee addicts or something?”

I sighed. I shrugged. I grabbed the napkins and started trying to soak up some of the water that had worked its way onto the keyboard. “I might as well be one. You come around here a whole fucking lot, too, though, so what’s your deal? Are you the resident vintage asshole or something?”

“Dave Strider,” he introduced himself abruptly. “Student, musician, and purveyor of irony.” With that much said, a wild, somewhat lopsided grin spread across his face. “And in four years you’ll be, what? The History Channel phone operator?”

“And you’ll be some fucking robot pushing buttons all day. Your point?” I snapped back, though I sort of enjoyed his goading. “So, what’s up with the outfit? Late for the biker dork convention?”

“I’m trying to jumpstart the greaser revival,” he shrugged and grabbed the guitar case at his feet. As he wandered off, he used his foot to shove a moderately sized amplifier out from under the table, too. “You’re here earlier than usual. Freshman Friday is a few days away, you know.”

I stifled the smile that threatened to appear. “I’ve got something going on this evening, jackass. And you do know it only works when you have historical context, right?”

Another shrug. He pulled a lovingly polished red and white electric guitar from the case and returned for the amp. He flashed a crude gesture at me while he grabbed it. “Aesthetic. I’m trying to revive the aesthetic, you damned critic. I’m not trying to raise Elvis from the dead or anything.”

I sighed and dismissed his commentary as I ordered a large coffee. By the time I was done ordering, he was getting set up. I watched absentmindedly as he plugged in the equipment. One wire from the amplifier to the wall, another from the amp to the guitar. Then, there was one I hadn’t noticed before. He pulled a considerably longer wire out from his pocket and plugged it into an extra port on the amp. He fed it upwards under his shirt until his other hand grabbed onto the end and pushed a pale yellow hearing aid from where it hung over his ear. I watched as he muttered something under his breath, plugged the end of the wire into the device, and stuck it back into place.

And, around then, our gaze met. A smug grin—something that seemed to say ‘I bet you weren’t fucking expecting that’—spread across his conceited, stupid face. He nodded towards the front counter. “You know, jackass, your coffee is ready. It’s been ready for the past few minutes, actually.”

I frowned, turned around, and realized he was right. I felt the heat of blood rushing to my cheeks.

His response to that was a smile—a flash of perfectly imperfect teeth that were straighter than they were pure white. And for some unbeknownst goddamned reason, that smile got stuck in my mind. “You might want to get going, pal. What time is your shindig?”

“Six. Please don’t call anything a fucking shindig ever again,” I retorted.

He snickered and nodded towards the clock hanging over the door. “Well, then, jackass, you’re late. It started ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck.” I mumbled, dropping a small handful of cash on the counter as I grabbed my beverage and ran out the door. “Fuck. Fuck.” I repeated it over and over again as I ran back to the gymnasium, where I arrived in the middle of some sort of strange food-themed French poetry contest.

Yet, bizarrely, I spent the rest of the night thinking about that damned bastard’s smug smile. I wondered what was behind those enigmatic shades. And, while I never would have dared to even consider the idea then, I was in love with the godawful fucker the minute my head hit the pillow that night.


	2. [Record 1, Side A] 2. If I Didn't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated. This isn't a song from the 50's at all. This is from the goddamn 30's. But it's a damned fine song and I will shove a plug for it anywhere I possibly can.
> 
>  **About the Song**  
> ["If I Didn't Care"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If_I_Didn%27t_Care) was first performed in 1939 by The Ink Spots. It was written by Jack Lawrence and was featured in the original _Bioshock_ as one of the background songs. It's also included in the soundtrack. [**Listen to it here!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvwfLe6sLis)

By mid-September, I’d pretty much figured out the schedule at the coffeehouse. Dave played on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. The place was closed on Sundays. So, when I woke up the day after meeting him, I didn’t really expect to see him. It was, after all, a Tuesday.

So, I went through the day as usual. I attended class and ate a ham sandwich for lunch. I finished my last class of the day at 2:00 that afternoon. I packed my things up and headed back to the dorm as usual. Then, as I passed the fountain in the middle of campus, it dawned upon me that that day just so happened to be the so-called Campus Life Enrichment Festival.

Booths lined the paths which jutted radially from the main fountain space. Colorful banners accompanied each one. There seemed to be an odd assortment of clubs and organizations. A ghost enthusiast club table was set up, ironically enough, directly across from the campus ministries table. Golf club. Golf team. Environmentalists United. Crafting Club. It was almost unbearable how many goddamn clubs there were—how many people kept trying to shove pamphlets into my hands. I was just completely forgo the entire ridiculous affair when I noticed him.

The booth he seemed to be affiliated with was staffed by a pale blonde female with a lot of physical similarities to him and a tan upperclassman with dorky rectangular glasses and wildly messy black hair. And he was there, too, standing beside the booth with his arms folded across his chest as he watched people walk by. The un-fucking-believable Dave Strider.

Out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity, I wandered up to the booth. And I was immediately greeted by the enthusiastic raven-haired dork.

“Oh! Hey! You must be new here! Wow! Holy shit, we haven’t had anyone look at our table yet and…”

“We’re trying to recruit people, John, not talk them to death,” Dave interjected.

Despite the comment, not a bit of enthusiasm dropped away. “Yeah, Dave. True. So, anyhow, I’m John Egbert…”

“I’m Rose Lalonde…” The voice drew my gaze towards a pale woman with golden-blonde hair and a good amount of physical similarities to Dave. And she must have known I’d made the observation somehow, because she offered me a subtle grin and made an amendment to her statement. “I’m the cousin of that pompous bastard over there. And I already know he’s not likely to introduce himself, so his name’s Dave Strider.”

“We already know each other,” Dave cut in before I could. He shrugged, plucked the red sword toothpick he was using out of his mouth, and examined it for a moment before returning it to its former place.

“Yeah,” I added. “I’m Karkat Vantas and… um… How the fuck are all three of you in this club together?”

“That’s a reasonable question and I’m quite honestly unsure of how we haven’t just strangled each other to death,” Rose shrugged.

John laughed. “Dave and I have been friends since preschool.”

Dave sighed. “I don’t associate with these dorks.”

I shrugged. “Okay, then. Whatever. What do you do? Listen to music or something?”

For once, Dave took the lead in the club recruiting. A sly grin flashed briefly across his usually passive features. “It’s for people who play and appreciate music, dude. I mean… I play guitar and bass. John plays piano. Rose plays violin. But we have members whose only instrument is the kazoo, so that’s cool if you don’t.”

“I play clarinet,” I pointed out.

Dave snickered. “Great. We’ve been looking for a band dork. Anywho,” he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen as he continued talking. He scribbled something absentmindedly and ripped the page out, folding it into a neat square before handing it to me. “We meet Wednesdays starting next week. 5:00-6:00. Derse Branch 104. Come by and try it.”

“And you still haven’t fucking told me what this little gaggle of geeks does?” I mumbled.

Dave smirked. “Play music. Appreciate music. It’s pretty simple.” He shrugged and briefly pushed his shades up enough for me to see him glancing at me. “It can’t be that hard of a concept to understand.”

I sighed. “It’s not… Just…” I glanced at John, who, by then, was grinning like a godawful imp. “What? Is he always this fucking insufferable?”

“Hey,” Dave interjected, “I can still hear your commentary, Vantas, and I am hurt.” To add to his sarcastic remark, he tacked on the fakest frown I’ve ever seen.

John, meanwhile, was laughing again.

Rose had buried her face in her hands.

And I was busy trying to ignore the bastard. Which was kind of hard, seeing as he just kept talking.

“I’ve got a record player back at my place and we sometimes meet there to admire the classics. If that happens, you can hitch a ride with me on my bitchin motorcycle, right?” He shrugged. “Did I mention that meetings start next week?”

“Dear mother of God, yes, you did,” Rose moaned.

Dave breathed forth a quiet laugh. “Perfect. Then, in that case, you’re free to go.”

I didn’t need to hear it again. I shoved his note into my pocket, pulled my bag up onto my shoulder, and ran. There was no way in hell I was going to get stuck there. No, fuck that. I didn’t give a damn how stupidly charming he was, I was getting driven up the fucking wall. And I wasn’t about to blow up a mere three weeks into my first year of college.

 _**That night, Dave Strider found himself sprawled out** _  
_**in his bed. A kind of shitty top bunk which stood above** _  
_**John’s bottom bunk. A small tray was bolted to the side** _  
_**of his bed, leaving space for him to throw his shades and** _  
_**other assorted shit. But that was just a cool accessory,** _  
_**really. The main point is that it was somewhere around** _  
_**10:00PM and he was supposed to be trying to go to sleep.** _

Instead, he found himself leaning over the side of his bed in a way that let him see John. He held his left earpiece in place as he did so, seeing as he was dangling upside down.

John, meanwhile, was—for once in his life—not amused. “What the hell do you want, Dave? I have to go to sleep.”

“That’s nice,” muttered Dave. “So, hey, do you think Karkat’s joining music club?”

“I think you might have freaked him out a tiny bit,” John admitted. He sighed, rolled his sky blue eyes, and stretched his hand out behind him to turn on the light. Then, he sat up and turned to face his long-time friend. “Look, you’re kind of… You’re not exactly an easy guy to talk to.”

“Yeah?” Dave nodded slowly.

John continued. “I mean, you’re kind of… You’re pretty intimidating. Most people don’t run around in 1950’s getups anymore, and you being so damn tall doesn’t help. For all I know, that poor kid thinks you’re going to punch the hell out of him and toss him in the dumpster.”

“You think?”

A nonchalant shrug. “Maybe. What, you have a crush on him or something?” Here, a smug grin worked its way onto John’s decently tanned face. He folded his arms across his chest and snickered quietly.

Dave, meanwhile, vehemently denied the ridiculous accusation. “No. I just… He seems like he’d be a cool person to hang out with.”

“Yeah. And I’m a great football player,” John chuckled. He tugged at the sleeves of his favorite blue pajamas. “You gave him your number, right?”

Again, Dave nodded. “Yeah?”

“Then just wait. Maybe he’ll text you. If not, then you can try talking to him next time you see him.” John offered an undeniably reassuring smile—one of his trademark wide, toothy grins—and he leaned back to turn off the lights.

Dave, meanwhile, returned to a more reasonable position in his bunk. He heaved a pensive sigh, slipped off his hearing aid, and dropped it into the tray on the side of his bed. He stared at the stippled ceiling. And he thought.

He thought about his first ever crush—a mild grade school crush that ended up being as disastrous as it was creepy. After all, he somehow ended up trying to hook up with his cousin. At the time, of course, he didn’t realize that they were related. Fortunately, Rose did.

From there, he developed a middle school crush on the very person he shared the rent with. John Egbert. That raven-haired dork with his ugly glasses and stupid, dorky grins. And damn did he fall hard for John, because he still had that crush even as he thought about Karkat.

But, before Karkat, there was one final crush—a more mutual friendship type of relationship. It, too, ended. Kanaya was his sophomore year friend-crush, though she was promptly taken by Rose. Not that it mattered much to Dave.

Still, he thought, all of his former attempts had ended up as either massive, creepy failures or tragic unrequited affairs. What made this one any different? How could he make this one different? What if…

He paused. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden glow of his cell phone screen. He snatched the device up eagerly and stared at the screen like it was the meaning of life itself. He read the text message—a message from an unknown number written in all capital letters.

 _IF I JOIN YOUR STUPID FUCKING CLUB, DO_  
_I HAVE TO PAY SOME SORT OF MANDITORY_  
_CULT-JOINING FEE OR SOMETHING? SORRY_  
_I’M LATE. I HAVE TO FINISH WRITING A PAPER._

And, as soon as he we done reading, he started typing out his reply. While, on his old phone, he used to text in all lowercase letters, he found that he kind of liked his iPhone’s autocorrect feature. Aside from that, he was just too lazy to be bothered with undoing corrections for the sake of looking artificially casual. Still, when autocorrect didn’t kick in, he applied the same logic. Thus, some things were grammatically correct and others just flat out weren’t.

 _Nope you don’t have to pay any fees_  
_its free as hell party it the fuck up_  
_go fucking wild kiddo_

 _YOU CALL ME FUCKING “KIDDO” AGAIN,_  
_YOU ASSHOLE. YOU FUCKING TRY THAT_  
_AGAIN AND I WILL RIP YOU A NEW_  
_ASSHOLE, DAMMIT._

 _Aren’t you a cute kid wow I’m sure_  
_you’re a whole lot of fun at parties_

 _WHATEVER, JACKASS. I’M FUCKING_  
_DONE. GOOD FUCKING NIGHT. I HOPE_  
_YOU STEP ON A GODDAMN LEGO. AND_  
_I HOPE THAT LEGO GETS STUCK IN YOUR_  
_INSUFFERABLE, SMUG FOOT AND JUST_  
_FESTERS THERE._

_Cool_

He yawned, switched the phone over to silent mode, and set it screen-down on the tray. Then, without much further ado, he nestled into the comfort of his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and update regularly but if I don't I'm really, really sorry.


	3. [Record 1, Side A] 3. The Hell of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **About the Song**  
> "The Hell of It" is a song from the 1974 film, _Phantom of the Paradise_. The lyrics were written by Paul Williams, as were the lyrics for the entire movie. This particular song was meant to be played during a funeral scene that was cut out due to time constraints. The film is a cult classic that really only ever caught on in Winnipeg, Canada. It's a great movie, though, so go watch it. **[Listen to it here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYFTbzREY7M)**

A week passed. While I went to the coffeehouse every day, I didn’t see Dave. Not that it surprised me. We’d been texting.

Apparently, that Wednesday, he was hired to play guitar at some sort of retro music festival and was taking time off to practice. Seeing as I had no idea what the fuck it was about, though, I didn’t go. Aside from that, I didn’t know where the living hell it was.

So, the first time I saw him after the encounter on Tuesday was when I showed up in Derse Branch 104 for music club.

When I arrived, I found him pretty quickly. He sat atop an executive desk in the back of the room. On the whiteboard behind him, he’d doodled a few simple images of musical instruments. The overhead projector was set on a slide that simply said, “Welcome to music club.”

Along with the other two from the table, there was another person—a tall woman with short black hair and dark brown skin. Her lips were coated with a thin layer of black lipstick and, when she spoke, she articulated her words carefully. “When did we acquire a new member?”

“If we don’t acknowledge the asshole, maybe he’ll go away,” Dave smirked.

I sighed and sat down in the back of the room.

Dave started talking. “Okay. That’s pretty much everyone. What, we’ve got a whopping five losers in this room, including myself? Impressive. That’s one more loser than last year.” He shrugged, got off of the desk, and leaned his shoulder against the whiteboard. “Anyhow, since we have a new member… I’m the club founder, Dave Strider. And you’ve met pretty much everyone except for my cousin’s fuck buddy, Kanaya.”

“She is _not_ my ‘fuck buddy,’” Rose snapped. Notably, though, she didn’t lose a bit of her usual composure.

And, likewise, Dave didn’t, either. Honestly, it was kind of hard to not realize that the two fuckers were related. “So, let’s get the icebreaker out of the way for this clueless freshman. Bless his little soul.” He smirked, clipped his sunglasses to the front of his shirt, and wandered over to the podium. Leaning against it, he continued, “Like I said. I’m Dave Strider. I play the electric bass, electric guitar and just plain old guitar. I founded this club in my freshman year. Next?”

“John Egbert. You’ve met me. I play piano and I helped Dave set up the club. I also split his apartment’s rent with him, since I live there, too.”

“Rose Lalonde. You’ve also met me. I play violin and I am, quite unfortunately, related to that smug piece of leather trash poised at the head of the room.”

Finally, the one person in the room I didn’t recognize spoke up. “Kanaya Maryam. I’m Rose’s girlfriend and I only just became aware of this club last year. I pride myself in my ability to play both harp and cello.”

I nodded, sighed, and glanced at Dave.

He responded by snickering. “Your turn, Karkat. It’s not fair if everyone has to make a shitty intro except for you.”

Another heavy sigh escaped me. “Karkat Vantas,” I grumbled, “I play clarinet. That’s about it. I’m not that fucking interesting.”

Dave nodded approvingly. “Cool, so, heads up. Next week we’re meeting in the main campus hangout place. Whatever the fuck you call it. We’ll be playing pool. Kind of. I’ll be playing pool. You dorks can join me if you want to.”

A quiet murmur of affirmatory “hm” noises whispered through the room. Then, for some otherworldly reason, Rose butted in. “So, Karkat? What musical selections do you enjoy playing?”

I shrugged. “I liked big band music, I guess?”

“Old fogey,” Dave muttered.

“Dave, don’t you have a stash of that shit hidden in one of the kitchen cabinets?” John pointed out. “You do. So many dead musicians. Like, that Glenn Miller asshole. The one who looks kind of like that Crosby guy my Dad likes.”

For a brief moment, a subtle shade of pink highlighted Dave’s cheeks. He seemed to stifle it quickly, though. He pulled his shades off of his dirty shirt and put them back on before letting out a huff of somewhat hesitant laughter. “I’m holding them for someone.”

“In that case, your acquaintance must live very, very far away and lack the capabilities or resources to be able to visit frequently. If my memory is right, John once mentioned that they’ve been there for quite some time. Since you both moved into the apartment in freshman year, right?” Kanaya commented.

Another hint of a flush. Dave sighed and rolled his usual red toothpick around in his mouth before replying with a slight tone of annoyance. “I don’t remember it being ‘Harass Dave Strider Day’ today. I didn’t think that was until, like, December. December third or fourth.”

I’m not exactly sure what drove me to do it, but I spoke up at that moment. “I kind of like Glenn Miller, actually… I mean, he fucking disappeared like Amelia Earhart in the 1940’s but he made pretty good music…”

“Yeah,” Dave frowned and—perhaps unconsciously—rubbed behind his right ear. The action pushed another behind-the-ear hearing aid into view. “He is kind of cool… You can come over and listen if you want to sometime… I’ve got a nice setup. Four speakers, two subwoofers…”

“This is music club, David, not hook up with your freshman crush club,” muttered Rose.

For the first time since I’d met him, Dave Strider was briefly speechless. He recovered without much effort, though, shooting back, “Hey, it’s a relevant topic.”

Rose shrugged. A wry grin worked its way onto her face as she leaned closer to me and muttered under her breath, “He’s the definitive dictionary example of a pompous asshole with an over-inflated ego, but my cousin’s actually a surprisingly nice guy. You just have to get to know him.” She winked at me as Dave interjected.

“I object to your whispering. That is a dirty, terrible thing to do when you know I can’t hear you.” With that much said, he stopped leaning against the podium and wandered back to the executive desk. “Anyhow, disclaimer that I’m sort of obligated to give… We’re not actually an official legitimate club. We just happened to find an open spot and set up a table and a sign we just happened to have with us at the time. Purely coincidental.”

“So, is there, like, an actually legitimate form of this dork festival or no?” I asked.

Dave shrugged. “We’d be a legitimate club if we had more than seven members. We’re currently classified as an _unofficial organization_ ,” he pointed out, emphasizing the ending phrase with air quotes. “I just know that Professor Deuce is cool enough to let us crash the classroom for an hour or two.”

“So we’re just fucking sitting here doing nothing, basically?” I sighed.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Another cocky grin and a nonchalant shrug. Pushing his shades up just enough for me to see him wink, Dave continued, “Anywho, class dismissed. You losers are free to go.”

A quiet hum of agreement filled the air inside the room. Everyone started to get up and wander off. Still, I was more than mildly confused. “Wait. Hold the fuck up. You’re telling me this was it? That’s the entire fucking club?” I sputtered.

“Pretty much, yes,” Rose responded with another of her subtle grins. “Meetings can last a little longer, though. This was merely the preliminary introductory gathering.”

As I heaved another heavy sigh, Dave somehow managed to sneak up behind me. He nudged me on the shoulder, waited until I turned around, and flashed a nervous half-smile. “It’s kind of like a fan club, dude. We hang out, talk about shit, maybe eat some shit, and leave. Kind of like a friendship circle but with music.” Here, he paused. He pushed his shades up enough for me to see him take a quick glance around the room.

By then, everyone had left. We were the last people in the room.

And Dave seemed to notice that, too, because his additional statement had this pretty obvious sense of haste. “And, hey,” he muttered, “Come swing by the coffee place sometime soon and I’ll show you the apartment. Y’know… For club purposes.”

I nodded slowly.

He offered a small wave and a slightly more relaxed but still vaguely insincere smile. “Cool. See you later, then?”

“Yeah?”

“Great.” With that said, he buried his hands into his pockets and rushed out the door.

Really, I could probably have grabbed any goddamned twelve year old and they’d have more romantic grace than Dave did at that moment. Hell, I’m pretty sure a fucking rock was more socially inclined. Still, I have to admit that I liked it. I liked how he tried to act like he was the smoothest of smooth and then fell flat on his face in any social situation more intimate than a brief and often sarcastic “hello.” It was funny, to say the least; and, for some reason, I thought it was kind of cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~If for some reason someone has the vinyl soundtrack to this awesome as fuck movie and doesn't want it and wants to give it a loving home, I'm here to take it.~~ Please disregard my pining. Also, no Dave. And I just acquired Smash for the 3DS so I'mma be honest and say updates are going to be a little slow until I get sick of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments are welcome and appreciated! This is an AU I've been mulling over for a while, so I might as well start writing it. To hear more about my writing escapades, you can follow [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com) or just keep tabs on the **Tumblr tag** (fic: cbty). Also, I'm a dork and you can ~~bet your sweet ass~~ be sure to expect a metric fuckton of references to _Grease_ (oh, yeah, the title already is one...) and _The Outsiders_ as well as music from the 1950's through the mid-1970's.
> 
> Also, yes, like Dave in this fic, I also collect records! If for some reason you want to know what type of bullshit I slap on my record player, then check out **[my vinyl collection at Discogs](http://www.discogs.com/user/Sninyl_Snail-Vinyl/collection)**. (You can tell by my username, Sninyl_Snail-Vinyl, that I'm a very, very serious collector. I am the most serious collector ever.)


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